


Truce

by wordsrising



Category: Flight Rising
Genre: Alliances, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Death, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23561116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsrising/pseuds/wordsrising
Summary: Some things are worth the risk of trusting the enemy for, worth the chance of trickery and a trap. Some things are worth anything.
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

The sound of growling - in warning, rather than in pain - drew Des’s attention away from his task and toward the infirmary entrance.  
  
The growl had come, predictably enough, from Peregrine. The Guardian’s broad tan back was to him, tail lashing in anger, and her pale aqua wings were mantled in an obvious threat display. Des set down the herbs he’d been sorting and moved with all speed (sadly little more than a fast walk) toward his temperamental Guardian and whatever had aroused her ire.  
  
It was as impossible for him to move quietly as it was for him to move quickly, in both cases due to the fact that he was more than half stone, his claws scraping heavily against the cavern floor while he struggled to lift them without damaging what was left of his natural musculature; as soon as he reached Peregrine’s side, she lifted a foreleg to bar his way, leaving him well back in what she considered safety while still allowing him to see what had gotten her hackles up.  
  
In the entrance, backlit by the afternoon sun, were three harpies. The two to either side were harpy warriors, their sharp bone-white masks covering their faces, weapons held defensively in front of them. Between them was a bare-faced male.  
  
Des had known in theory that there must be male harpies, but he’d never seen one before this moment. Every scout and warrior to cross the clan, every messenger streaking past in the sky, every hunter and gatherer they’d chanced upon, was female, each with an elaborate mask to denote her occupation. He had never seen a male harpy or a harpy unmasked, yet here was one that was both.  
  
He supposed you really _did_ learn something new every day.  
  
All three intruders shifted part of their attention to Des. The warriors’ masks hid whatever they might think or feel, but Des felt he knew enough of harpy-like faces to read the astonishment in the male’s.  
  
“It is true,” the male said in accented draconic. His voice was high and breathy like birdsong, a slight hiss to his s-es and a faint trill to his r-s, but perfectly understandable and not entirely unpleasant to hear.  
  
Des tilted his head quizzically with a soft grating of stone-on-stone and tapped at Peregrine’s elbow.  
  
“What’s true?” Peregrine asked for him, her tone still hostile, but at least she wasn’t growling anymore.  
  
“We have heard that some of your number are afflicted with stone-feather,” the male answered readily, still staring openly at Des. “We have heard also that it is held at bay.”  
  
“It’s cured,” Peregrine corrected shortly. “Don’t look for weaknesses here, bird.”  
  
To Des’s surprise, the male lit up at that, tearing his attention back to Peregrine and meeting her hard yellow gaze squarely. “Cured? Truly?”  
  
Peregrine nodded. The harpy glanced back at Des, who nodded as well.  
  
The harpy exhaled sharply as if with relief, and some of the tenseness left him, despite the angry Guardian still looming over him. “Then please, I beg of you: we have need of your help.”  
  
“Beastclan don’t come to dragons for _help_ ,” Peregrine snapped, finally lowering her foreleg but planting her foot in Des’s path in case he got any ideas.  
  
“Please,” the male repeated, stepping forward and spreading his wings despite the way both his guards hissed at him for it. “Stone-feather haunts us again. We have lost too many already in this season. We cannot even slow it. We need help. If to dragons we must go, then so be it.”  
  
“Why do we care if your warriors die?” Peregrine asked, scoffing. “Good riddance, I’d say.”  
  
The guards hissed again, louder, and one of them took a threatening step toward Peregrine, pulling up short when the male stretched a wing in front of her.  
  
“Our warriors are not dying,” he said, trills and hisses slightly more pronounced. “Our children are.”  
  
Peregrine recoiled slightly as if from an attack, and only Des’s own weight kept him from doing likewise. In Des’s rather informed experience, the disease the harpy called ‘stone-feather’ only attacked adults. The thought of a _child_ suffering under it was almost too much to bear.  
  
“Our eggs turn to stone in the nests,” the harpy continued relentlessly as he stepped forward, wings still held wide. ( _Leaving himself vulnerable,_ Des realized, for he wore no armor and carried no weapons to defend himself with if Peregrine chose to attack him.) “For each to hatch two are lost, and of every two to hatch, one is lost as well. Dragons cannot want a victory such as this. Please, great lady. My life - our lives - for your cure. Any price for our children. _Please_.”  
  
If Peregrine were able to deny such a plea… well, she likely would be no Guardian of _his_. She cursed under her breath, tail lashing ponderous behind her, but she lowered her wings and rounded on Des.  
  
“ _You_ are staying right here,” she informed him flatly. “You’re in no condition to go traipsing into enemy territory, and you’d be too slow, anyway. You, harpy- how far?”  
  
“Far, great lady?”  
  
“To your cavern or roost or whatever you call it. How far?”  
  
“Half the day’s flight. You will help?”  
  
“Aine’d tan my hide if I didn’t,” Peregrine said, moving to the workbench and rifling through the contents for what she’d need. “Assuming our exalted idiot healer here didn’t do it himself. Vanir!”  
  
Vanir sulked out of the little alcove he’d been hiding in most of the afternoon. He was much better at sulking than most Fae; it was a little adorable. “Yes?”  
  
“I assume you were eavesdropping between your lovesick mooning?”  
  
“Yes,” Vanir said, managing to sound sulky as well.  
  
“Go explain the situation to Aine. Tell her I need a nanny to go with me and a nanny to keep a leash on Des.”  
  
“Yes,” Vanir said again, heaving an un-Fae-like sigh before flitting past the harpies and out into the open, toward the nesting grounds.  
  
Peregrine eyed the trio of harpies still blocking the infirmary entrance, then glanced past them to the miraculously empty courtyard. “Get in here,” she snapped. “Before someone decides you don’t deserve to be stabbed from the front.”  
  
The male stepped forward, pausing at yet another hiss from one of his guards. The two conversed shortly in a language that fell just shy of birdcall, then she made what sounded like a noise of disgust and followed him into the infirmary with obvious reluctance. Peregrine watched until they would no longer be easily spotted from the outside, then returned to her task, finding an empty satchel to fill with what she’d need.  
  
Des crossed to his own workbench, shifting aside the herbs and pulling a thin journal from the pile of books there, the one with all his notes and speculation and experiments from his own experience with this illness. By the time he finished turning ponderously around, Peregrine was waiting to accept it. She shoved it into her bag, pacing restlessly, and it didn’t escape Des’s notice that said pacing never took her out from between him and the harpies.  
  
They didn’t have long to wait; Vanir was a fast flyer, and his penchant for theatrical moping never lasted past where an audience could see him. It was all of ten minutes, if that, before the little Fae returned trailing three Skydancers.  
  
The first of the Skydancers was pale silvered green and electric blue, patterns of striking lightning crawling across her hide. She carried a bag of her own, her dark blue eyes solemn. Taliesin was the clan’s hatchling-healer, and more so than Peregrine or even Des, she wouldn’t allow her personal feelings toward the beastclans to prevent her from saving as many children as they could.  
  
Behind her was dark quiet Ametrine, face painted white and bones clinking against each other where they decorated her wings. She moved with a slowness borne of caution more than pain, for all her hide was crossed all over with scars, some of them very obviously left by harpy claws. Des was both surprised and not to see her; of all the clan, Ametrine had the most reason to hate harpies, but life had taught her that dragons could be equally cruel.

Not all her scars had come from harpies, after all.  
  
Lastly, ghosting in on silent feet with her white-feathered birdskulls and matching wraps, was Xaviera. She acted as the clan’s undertaker, and there was a calmness to her that bordered on serene, so long as you avoided eye contact. Her blood-red eyes saw more than the mortal world, and no mortal could hope to hold her gaze for more than a moment or two.  
  
“Des doesn’t need two babysitters,” Peregrine commented. “Even Ametrine can keep up with him.”  
  
“He only has one,” Xaviera replied. “Ametrine stays with him; Taliesin and I go with you. Taliesin knows almost as much about healing as you do, and with a little luck you’ll only need me to fetch and carry. A little less, and I can at least teach them how to properly dispose of the bodies.”  
  
“And with a little less than that?” Peregrine asked.  
  
Xaviera smiled, and her deep red eyes seemed for a moment to glow. “In that case,” she said, “the Mother is always with me.”  
  
Xaviera was so quiet and unassuming that it was easy to forget that undertaker wasn’t her only job; she was also a priestess of considerable rank, and if this turned out to be a trap, she and the Plaguebringer would ensure the harpies lived just long enough to regret it, and not one moment longer.  
  
Not that Des thought it would come to that. He fancied himself a decent judge of character, and he felt that the harpies were being truthful. Their need was genuine, and Des only wished he could go to help himself. Peregrine and Taliesin between them should be more than capable, but neither knew this disease as intimately as Des did.  
  
Besides, he hated being left behind.  
  
Des sighed quietly. Ametrine caught his eye and smiled sympathetically. She had never done well holding the camp, either.  
  
“Alright,” Peregrine said. “Let’s get going, we have a long flight ahead of us.” The two harpy warriors stepped forward, but the male stayed where he was. “What now?”  
  
“I will remain here, great lady.”  
  
“The hell you will.”  
  
“You do not trust us. That is fair. I remain here to show our trust to you. I believe the word you use is ‘hostage’?”  
  
Peregrine looked so exasperated that Des couldn’t help but laugh, drawing her attention to him.  
  
_If he gets unruly I can sit on him_ , Des signed helpfully, making Ametrine chuckle.  
  
“If it makes you feel better, send Excidium to us on your way out,” Ametrine suggested.  
  
Excidium was one of the largest members of the clan, and had nearly died in the same harpy attack that had permanently grounded Ametrine. He wouldn’t let his guard down around a harpy and was much more able to fight than Ametrine or Des; the suggestion seemed to mollify Peregrine somewhat, though she did roll her eyes.  
  
“Fine, stay- see if I care,” she said. “But mark my words, harpy: if you so much as _look wrong_ at any of my clan, I will destroy everything you hold dear, and make you watch.”  
  
Once again the harpy, not even half as tall as Ametrine and absolutely dwarfed by Peregrine’s bulk, met her eyes squarely, nodding solemnly. Des had to admire his bravery, if nothing else.  
  
Peregrine snorted once, ruffling the harpy’s wing feathers, then turned and stalked from the infirmary. Taliesin and Xaviera watched impassively until the masked warriors reluctantly followed, then left themselves, leaving Des, Ametrine, and their hostage alone.  
  
“Well,” Ametrine said into the silence, sighing. “I suppose introductions are in order. I am Ametrine, and this is Des. He can’t speak; I’ll interpret for him for now. And you are?”  
  
“Ixche, great lady,” he said. Des doubted he could have reproduced the sound exactly even when his voice box had functioned; part of it was more a whistle than a syllable, and the end of it was halfway between a syllable and a chirp. “It is as much a pleasure as the circumstances allow.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never let it be said that the gods, confronted with a delicate and complicated situation, won't jump at the chance to complicate it a little more.

Ixche stood by his decision to stay behind. His reasoning was sound, and his suppositions about the character of dragonkind as a whole had yet to be challenged. Even Mother had agreed, albeit at least halfway from knowing Ixche’s life did not outweigh the eggs that might be saved from this venture. Giving himself up as a hostage made sense. It had been the right choice to make.  
  
Allowing for all of that, Ixche would not deny that he was also afraid.  
  
Before this journey, he had never left the eyrie, never flown past the edges of the nesting grounds or explored further into the mountain than the communal caverns. Their flock was a small one, a splinter in truth, a target of hostility both from dragons and from Talona’s flock. Mother’s decision to break from Talona and her doomed war had come at the cost of any allies she and those who followed her might have had, leaving no safe place Ixche might have been sent. He had been the only male in the flock for much of his life, and even now was the only grown male, and thus was simply too precious to risk.  
  
He and Mother had not made the decision to send Ixche lightly, but Xzaki had demonstrated perfectly well why warriors alone could not come, and of those few females who were not warriors and could be spared from their duties, none actually spoke the language of dragons. Ixche was the only possible choice, and their situation was desperate enough to make him an acceptable choice as well.  
  
But none of that meant that he wasn’t afraid.  
  
“Ixche?” the dragon who called herself Ametrine asked, in a way that suggested it was not the first time.  
  
“Yes, great lady?”  
  
Ametrine laughed, a warm laugh so soft he might not have heard it had there been any other noise to drown it out. “You needn’t call me that,” she said. “Simply Ametrine will do.”  
  
“Yes, Ametrine. Did you wish something of me?”  
  
“I asked if you were hungry,” she said. “Des needs to eat soon; I’m certain we have food to spare for you.” She laughed again. Ixche decided he quite liked the sound. “I doubt you could eat even half as much as our hatchlings do.”  
  
Ixche had never seen a dragon hatchling, but if they were of a scale with their parents, he would have to agree with her. “If it would be no burden, any sort of meat will do.”  
  
Ametrine nodded. “No trouble at all. Now-” she broke off, turning toward the entrance in time to watch another dragon enter.  
  
This dragon was slightly smaller than Ametrine, with pitch black hide that shone like metal, a brilliant mint-green underbelly, and piercing pale lavender eyes that swept over Ixche in a way similar to but not exactly like a hawk sizing up its prey.  
  
“This must be our unusual guest,” the newcomer commented, coming to a stop some distance away. “Hello, little harpy.”  
  
“What brings you here, Lothar?” Ametrine asked curiously. “I thought Peregrine was going to send Excidium.”  
  
“She wanted to,” Lothar admitted, laughing. It was louder than Ametrine’s, but almost as pleasant. “I convinced him he was a bit too big to throw at the poor thing.”  
  
“Thoughtful of you,”  
  
Lothar nodded. “It _is_ what I do, after all. Now, harpy- I’m Lothar. You are?”  
  
“Ixche.”  
  
Lothar hummed. “That means ‘sunrise’, doesn’t it?”  
  
Ixche, taken somewhat by surprise, responded automatically. “It is the moment of stillness just before the first light passes the horizon.”  
  
“Ah! I stand corrected. Wonderful name. Whoever gave it to you must have seen great potential in you. Have they fed you yet?”  
  
“I was about to send Cinder out for food,” Ametrine spoke up. “Do you want anything?”  
  
“No, thank you, Ametrine. I’m just here for emotional support and because if I _didn’t_ jump at the chance for a friendly chat with a harpy, you’d all think I’d been replaced by a mimic. That’s the trouble with being curious,” he added in an aside to Ixche. “You’re not allowed to take a day off. Did you know about half the clan thinks there’s no such thing as male harpies?”  
  
Ixche couldn’t help the surprised laugh that snuck out of him at that. “Truly?”  
  
“I’m certain you have just as many ridiculous beliefs about dragons,” Lothar replied. “It comes from having no communication or cultural exchange between us. However did you learn draconic?”  
  
“The scouts taught me,” Ixche explained. “It was not a skill they expected I would need, but they would not deny me.”  
  
“Oh?” Lothar asked with apparent interest, settling himself on the floor, which placed his head more on level with Ixche’s.  
  
Ixche nodded, settling into a more relaxed stance himself. “Males exist, but we are few; therefore, we are spoiled. How did you learn our tongue?”  
  
“Oh, I can’t claim to have learned it, just picked up a bit along the way, mainly from a feathered lady I met during a trip to the Sundial some years ago. Now _that_ is an interesting tale-”

* * *

  
Ametrine smiled to herself as she sent Cinder off with a message for the kitchens. She saw right through Lothar’s little scheme. The Nocturne had a heart as open as his mate’s was closed, and she knew as certainly as she knew her own name that he had guessed at how a lone harpy hostage must feel surrounded by dragons and flown to the rescue as fast as he could.  
  
Not that she would judge him for it. She hadn’t realized just how tense Ixche was until he began to relax, listening to Lothar’s slightly exaggerated accounts of his encounters with beastclan individuals during his travels. She was mildly surprised the poor thing hadn’t fallen over from how stiffly he’d been holding himself.  
  
Stone scraped against stone behind her, and she turned to Des attentively.  
  
_You can go if you want,_ he signed. _Lothar can babysit me._  
  
_I can do this,_ she signed back, not wanting to interrupt the magic Lothar was still working half a cavern away.  
  
_We know you can,_ Des replied. _You don’t have to. You’re allowed to find things difficult. You’re allowed to not do difficult things._  
  
_I’m fine. Truly._ She didn’t feel any special dislike or fear toward harpies, despite what they’d done to her. Those were old wounds, mostly healed and easily set aside in favor of much newer ones. _Thank you for worrying._  
  
Des leaned down, nuzzling her carefully in a gesture she didn’t allow from many non-Skydancers, especially ones bigger than her. In fact, only Des and Excidium had that privilege.  
  
_You are welcome, little sister._  
  
Ametrine smiled, following Des back to Ixche and Lothar, collecting a cushion along the way so that she could sit without her hip bothering her.

* * *

  
The four of them passed a pleasant afternoon listening to Lothar talk, interrupted twice to ensure Des ate. The sun was close to setting when a commotion outside drew their attention. A screech not unlike an angry falcon rang out, and Ixche shot to his feet.  
  
A harpy, female and unarmed and wearing the mask of a messenger, stumbled into the infirmary. She shivered slightly, panting behind her mask. There was a strip of tattered white cloth tied around her leg, and Ametrine recognized the ferret sitting in the basket on her back as Peregrine’s familiar, Koko.  
  
Ixche hurried to the messenger, speaking in low, tense tones to her. Koko clambered out of the basket and jumped to the floor, scurrying over and swarming up into Des’s arms. There was a piece of parchment tucked into her collar; Ametrine pulled it free, unfolding it.  
  
_Worse than we were told,_ the note said in Xaviera’s sharp handwriting. _Every hatchling is infected. The disease is in half the adults, too. Matriarch sent instructions to her son- make sure he follows them. Don’t know when we’ll be back. Make our apologies._  
  
Beneath that was a list. Ametrine recognized the names of a handful of herbs and minerals on it, but not all. She took possession of Koko and handed Des the note, turning around.  
  
The messenger was no longer panting, but she still shivered in the cooling evening air. She had already passed on whatever instructions she’d been given. Ametrine didn’t think Ixche looked happy about whatever they’d been.  
  
“Mother has instructed that I remain,” he said quietly. “She begs that those your flockmates find still in good health be allowed to join me.”  
  
Ametrine glanced at Lothar, then at Des. None of them had the authority to allow that, no matter how much they might want to.  
  
Lothar sighed. “We can’t give you an answer,” he told Ixche. “Come with me, you and your friend. We need to take this to Agogwe.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lifelong mindsets don't change easily, but they can be changed, with time. Hopefully, time is the one thing they have.

“Ametrine, would you mind going ahead to warn her we’re coming?” Lothar asked. Ametrine inclined her head and moved toward the entrance without a word, and Lothar turned back to the pair of harpies.  
  
It was easy to forget, especially when dealing with their survivors, that harpies were actually quite small. Their tactics rested on being fast and numerous; a lone harpy couldn’t do much damage at all to most dragons. Lothar was at least half again as tall as Ixche, and Ixche’s companion was slightly smaller than him. In an infirmary designed to comfortably house Guardians and Imperials, they looked very small, indeed.

Hopefully, the way their surroundings highlighted their size would work in their favor. They’d need all the help they could get.  
  
“Come along, you two,” Lothar instructed, motioning toward the exit.  
  
The messenger glared at him through the eye-holes of her mask and spread one wing slightly, cupping it protectively around Ixche. Ixche spoke softly to her, and Lothar wasn’t fluent enough to understand much beyond the words ‘safe’ and ‘friend’. She didn’t lower her wing or lessen her glare, and she very obviously placed herself between Lothar and Ixche, but she did turn her back to him and head outside.  
  
Lothar followed at a slight distance, not wanting to crowd them but not wanting them to appear unescorted. His clanmates could get twitchy where the beastclans were concerned, and he didn’t want to test anyone’s restraint.  
  
Curious eyes followed their progress through the Guardhouse, past the empty dens of Guardians out and about with their charges, to the edge of the nursery, where Agogwe waited.  
  
Agogwe was a large and imposing dragon, and she knew it. She was actually somewhat smaller than Peregrine, but had such a presence about her that she _seemed_ larger. She had a calm gravity borne of age and experience, and she waited sitting, forelegs folded neatly, wings relaxed against the ground at her side, eyes hidden behind the lenses of her goggles.  
  
A good call, that. Agogwe’s eyes were too kind to not give her soft heart away.  
  
Zamji flanked her on one side and Ikaroa on the other, the strongest martial front the clan possessed if one were forced to discount Horehound, who was nowhere to be seen. Also a good call.  
  
“You have my clan in an uproar,” she noted neutrally, voice rumbling in her chest.  
  
“I apologize,” Ixche said. “That was not my intent.”  
  
“I didn’t think it was,” she replied evenly. “Ametrine tells me you want to bring more harpies into our territory.”  
  
Ixche nodded, talons digging into the dirt. “Not many. Those still free of stone-feather who will leave the hatchlings.”  
  
Agogwe hummed, turning her head slightly to address Ikaroa. “What do you think?”  
  
Ikaroa snorted, all four brilliant pink eyes pinned on Ixche and his little guard. He held his silence for a long moment, no doubt formulating the best - and shortest - way to give his answer. “Xaviera trusts them,” he said at length.  
  
Agogwe turned to the other side, to Zamji. “And you?”  
  
Zamji was young and new to the clan, and not used to being asked his opinion, but he only showed his surprise for a second or two before getting himself under control. “I think... I think if Xaviera trusts them, so should we.”  
  
Agogwe hummed again, but Lothar thought he detected a hint of satisfaction in it. “Not everyone will be so inclined to trust Xaviera’s word.”  
  
“They’re idiots,” Ikaroa replied, not even attempting to lower his voice. Never let it be said that Mirrors minced their words.  
  
“Thank you, Ikaroa,” Agogwe said. “Very well, harpy; bring your refugees. We’ll figure out a place for them.”  
  
“They can stay in the Stone,” Lothar offered. “Hau is in for once, and what she, Heise, and Sienna can’t handle between them, the Gaolers can.”  
  
Agogwe cocked her head like a great cat at him, and he could tell she was struggling not to smile. “True enough. I suppose we should get these two settled.”  
  
“With respect, great lady,” Ixche spoke up, “Cheyh will not remain. Your healers asked for supplies she must carry back.”  
  
Agogwe nodded. “See her off, then; Lothar can take you to the Stone, since he’s appointed himself your babysitter. Go.”  
  
Ixche nodded, bowing before turning to Cheyh (if he recalled, that had something to do with mountain snow- did all harpies have such poetic names?) and speaking to her quickly. She nodded, taking a reluctant step back.  
  
Ametrine appeared, as if from nowhere, in the space next to Lothar. “I’ll take her to the infirmary,” she offered. “Best to get them both safely away as fast as possible.”  
  
“She isn’t happy?” Lothar guessed, sighing when Ametrine nodded. “See Cheyh on her way, then, and tell Horehound I’ll be by for an emergency talk at sundown.”  
  
“I will,” she promised, gesturing to Cheyh and leading the messenger off.

* * *

  
Ixche watched Cheyh move away with Ametrine, unsure of how he felt. This all had been much easier to accomplish than he’d feared, but also strangely harder. He felt... oddly tired, given how little he had done today besides talk.  
  
“Come along, Ixche,” Lothar said, calling his attention away from Cheyh’s quickly-receding back. “It’s a bit of a walk to the Stone.”  
  
“What is the stone?” Ixche asked, falling into step beside Lothar.  
  
“That’s what we call the part of the den where Nocturnes such as myself live,” Lothar explained. “We dragons come in many sizes, with many different needs, and it seemed best for us each to live in a place made specifically for ourselves. Geddoe lives in the Cove, and frankly he’s welcome to it; I don’t know how he stands the heat, or the humidity. Must be a feathers thing.”  
  
They walked as Lothar talked, back the way they came and then off down another pathway, past a tall edifice glinting in the setting sun and a great tree overhanging a large wooden platform, until they reached the mouth of a large cave. Lothar walked inside, and Ixche followed him.  
  
The cave beyond the opening was vast. It was easily the size of all the communal caverns put together, with room for the entire flock to fit comfortably inside it. The ceiling was not so vaulted as the communal caverns, but still rather high, and there were numerous alcoves and side passages leading off it. In the center of the cave was a lowered section, where three dragons of a type with Lothar sprawled across a pile of multicolored furs, their spread wings glittering like glass.  
  
One of the dragons, the one with dazzling blue wings draped in a dozen shades of purple, opened one eye but otherwise didn’t move. “Took you long enough,” they commented. “Hey big guy, they’re here.”  
  
The furs shifted under her and part of them lifted, revealing that they weren’t furs at all: they were _fur_ , belonging to a great shaggy dragon who lifted a head of heavy antlers and opened its glowing-red eyes with a snort. “You’re impatient, child.”  
  
Ixche couldn’t tell for certain just how large this dragon was, beyond simply much, much bigger than him. Its voice was deep and echoed oddly, as if it came from the bottom of a long shaft, and he felt very much like a small prey animal faced with a hawk’s talons.  
  
“Relax, youngling,” the great dragon said, with such power and authority naturally imbued in their voice that Ixche obeyed almost against his will. “You’re safe here.”  
  
“Pilane has no bias against harpies,” Lothar explained, his own voice low and reassuring. “As far as I’m aware, you’re the first harpy he’s ever encountered.”  
  
Pilane nodded his great head. “Your kind didn’t range as far to the south as I lived.”  
  
Another part of the furs moved and another great head rose, propping itself against Pilane’s neck. This one was vivid turquoise and a bright peach color, with normal red eyes and slimmer antlers, all covered in a profusion of dark blue flowers.  
  
“ _I’ve_ seen harpies before,” this dragon said, but in a light cheerful voice like warmed honey. “I like them. They don’t perch on my antlers.”  
  
“Mostly because they’re trying to kill you,” one of the glass-winged dragons spoke up.  
  
“Isn’t that what you do when you cook for me?”  
  
The two fell to bickering in a way that reminded Ixche of how Mother and his aunts bickered, with even many of the same complaints they used. It was hard to feel afraid or intimidated around such familiar conversation, even if it was in a language he wasn’t used to hearing often.  
  
Lothar smiled, motioning for Ixche to follow as he circled the pile of fur - was the brown and silvered cream part yet another dragon? - to one of the side passages.  
  
“You and your flockmates can be housed here,” he said, gesturing to a series of small alcoves, each about the size of a family nest. “They’re a bit too small for us, but they should suit. We’ll help you prepare them; just tell us what you need.”  
  
Ixche nodded, starting to make a mental list of all the things they’d need to make this place into a comfortable temporary home, and resolved not to let himself dwell on the fact that the only exit was through the main cavern and past the many dragons there.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wound may be too old to bleed, but that doesn't make it too old to ache.

Lothar saw Ixche settled as comfortably as possible in his temporary home, then left him in the care of the other residents of the Stone and made his way across the lair to the Hatchery.  
  
Horehound was waiting outside her den when Lothar reached it, just as the last of the sun slipped below the horizon. Her moss-covered golem paced in circles around her feet, her owner’s distress making her restless. As soon as Horehound saw him, she turned and stepped inside without a word, golem close at her heels, and Lothar followed her.  
  
Unlike the Stone, which was one large shared den with a private alcove for each of them on the rare occasions solitude was preferred, the dragons of the Hatchery each lived in their own separate den, ornamented and cluttered up to suit themselves. Horehound’s den was essentially an indoor garden, with plants in pots on every surface and planter boxes against the walls and even plants in baskets suspended from the ceiling. Part of Horehound would always belong to the Gladekeeper, even in the heart of the Plaguebringer’s territory, and her den reflected that.  
  
Lothar wondered sometimes what it said about Nocturnes and Gaolers, that they refused to allow personality into their dens at all.  
  
Horehound sighed, taking off her cloak and dropping it on the floor in the general vicinity of a laundry basket. “I don’t like it,” she said without preamble. Also, however, without heat. That boded well.  
  
“It’s understandable you wouldn’t,” Lothar replied, settling himself comfortably at the table while Horehound shed the rest of her gear and paused to light a lantern.  
  
“Don’t be reasonable with me,” she snapped, scooping up her golem and holding her close.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s my job, Horehound,” he told her. She smiled faintly for a moment, then it was gone. “Talk it through.”  
  
Horehound began to pace in the small patch of available floor space, sighing again. “Ametrine is fine with it.”  
  
“You aren’t Ametrine.”  
  
“I’m well aware of that.”  
  
“Horehound, you don’t need to be Ametrine. You’re allowed to be you. You’re allowed to be bothered by things, even if they don’t bother Ametrine.”  
  
Horehound growled, but it was half-hearted at best. “Don’t be reasonable with me,” she repeated, sitting heavily across from him. “I don’t like it, but I like even less that I don’t like it. Does that make sense at all?”  
  
Lothar nodded, holding his peace for now. Horehound did better arguing herself to where she needed to be; his job was mostly just to listen.  
  
“I don’t want it to bother me,” Horehound continued after a moment. “I want to be fine with it. But thinking about any of those… _beasts_ in the lair just- I can’t make myself be okay with it.” The golem butted her stone head against Horehound’s claws, mutely begging for pets, which Horehound absently gave. “I’m not even angry, or afraid, I just don’t like it. I’m _bothered_ , and that bothers me more than if I _were_ angry.”  
  
Lothar waited a moment to see if she had more to say, but she seemed to be done for now.  
  
“Why do you think that bothers you so much?” he asked. “Being bothered, I mean.”  
  
“Because if I don’t care enough to be angry, why do I have to care too much to not be bothered? I know it’s not even about the harpies, it’s- it’s just residual anger. I’m not angry about it because it’s not about this, it’s about- I hate being upset when I don’t want to be!”  
  
If her arms hadn’t been full of stone cat, she probably would have broken something, just because excess emotion forced her to _do something_ , physically. The beauty of the golem was that the 'something' she wound up doing was cuddling and petting her, which calmed her down.  
  
“Let’s focus on that, then: why don’t you want to be upset?”  
  
Horehound had been his patient long enough not to scoff at the question, and to actually give it thought before answering. “Because… because Vanir explained what was happening, and harpy children are still children,” she finally said. “I don’t want to be the sort of dragon unaffected by the deaths of children.”  
  
“You seem fairly affected to me.”  
  
“But what if I wasn’t?”  
  
“What if you were a fish?”  
  
Horehound gave a surprised bark of laughter. “What?”  
  
“It has equal bearing,” Lothar said. “You _are_ affected, and you _aren’t_ a fish, so there’s no sense obsessing over either of those facts hypothetically being not true.”  
  
Horehound snorted, going back to petting her golem, her expression turning thoughtful.  
  
“Would it help if you met him?” Lothar asked after several moments of silence.  
  
Horehound looked up at him, blinking owlishly.  
  
“It might help to get to know a beast as an individual, rather than just as part of a faceless collective. I could ask if he’d be willing to meet you, if you think it might help.”  
  
“I… I don’t know.”  
  
“That’s fine. Give it some thought, and I’ll come back in the morning to see if you’ve found an answer. Just remember that it’s fine if the answer you find is ‘no’.”  
  
Horehound nodded, setting her golem down and standing. Lothar stood as well, stretching as much as the plants around him allowed.  
  
“I’d best be on my way, then. I have an early morning, and you’ve had a long day; we could both do with some sleep.”  
  
“Thank you,” she said. “I don’t feel _better_ , but I do feel calmer. Calm enough to sleep, at least.”  
  
“Then it was worth the trip. I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.”  
  
“Good night. Be safe.”  
  
Lothar nodded, pausing to pat Horehound’s golem on the head before stepping outside. She still had a long way to go and she knew it, but that knowledge sometimes blinded her to how far she’d already come. He was proud of her.  
  
Ixche was asleep (or was pretending to be asleep and therefore not in the mood for company) by the time he made it back to his own den, as were all the Stone’s residents not on night duty. Pilane nodded once in greeting, the red glow of his eyes dimmed but still visible in the dark. Lothar nodded back as he picked his way across the heap of Gaolers, finding an empty soft spot against Nyss’s shoulder and getting comfortable. He glanced once at the slightly darker opening of the narrow section he’d offered up as harpy quarters, then closed his eyes. The night was only getting shorter, and he really did have an early morning ahead of him; best to get some sleep while he could.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The similarities are there, if you know where to look, in greater abundance than the differences.

Ixche woke up alone. He wasn’t used to that. Before stone-feather had made its return, he’d slept with the chicks and fledglings; after, when that had been too dangerous, he’d shared Mother’s nest or passed the night with any harpy who needed the comfort. Being alone was not a natural thing for a harpy, especially not at night. Waking up alone was distressing in a way he hadn’t anticipated.  
  
There was noise in the great cavern full of dragons, low draconic voices and the scrape of scale and claw against stone. He groomed himself as best he could and moved to the tunnel mouth, peering out.  
  
The great dragon with glowing eyes - Pilane - had not moved at all from what Ixche could tell, but the orange-and-teal one was gone, as was the brown and cream fur that must have been another dragon. Most of the glass-wing dragons were gone, too. The only dragons left, in fact, were Pilane, Lothar, and a red and brown dragon who looked entirely made of glass, their limbs and wingtips clouded pale aqua and glinting in the light from outside.  
  
“Our guest is awake,” Pilane said in his oddly echoing voice, interrupting the hushed conversation Lothar and the glass dragon were having.  
  
“Ah, good morning, Ixche,” Lothar said, turning and hurrying over to him. “How did you sleep last night?”  
  
“Well enough,” Ixche replied politely. “And you?”  
  
“Fine, thank you,” Lothar said. “I have a few proposals for you, but I’m not mean enough to make you listen to them before breakfast. Ikaroa should be back from his morning hunt by now. You remember Ikaroa, no? Mainly white, sparky accessories, four pink eyes?”  
  
Ixche nodded, automatically following Lothar as the dragon moved toward the cavern entrance.  
  
“He’s quite memorable, I know, but a great deal happened yesterday and I wanted to be sure. Ikaroa does most of the hunting. We’ll find you something to eat and deliver Des’s breakfast to him, then I’ll bother you with proposals. Does that sound like a plan?”  
  
“Yes, Lothar,” Ixche answered absently.  
  
There were a great deal more dragons out and about this morning than there had been yesterday; all of them seemed to be staring at him, and he couldn’t help but stare right back. The scouts and warriors had told him about the many different dragon breeds, but it was entirely a different matter to see them himself, especially all at once. They were a dizzying array of colors and patterns, including one two-horned one who appeared to be made entirely of gold. And the sizes! Some were larger even than Agogwe, and some were small even compared to him!  
  
Lothar chuckled, as if he knew exactly what Ixche was thinking, as they passed once more through the empty square. “Let me know if you start to feel overwhelmed, Ixche,” he said. “We’ll stop somewhere quiet so you can catch your breath.”  
  
“I am fine,” Ixche assured him as they moved to a new part of the lair, tracing a winding route past a garden and a stand of trees, until they found the white dragon named Ikaroa and another dragon of the same type, larger and jet black with irregular patches of cyan all over their body.  
  
“Ah, was it your turn to hunt, Azeus?” Lothar asked, approaching the pair.  
  
The dark one nodded once, swinging a covered basket up between their wings and stalking off without a word.  
  
“Don’t mind Azeus,” Lothar said to Ixche. “He’s a Mirror: they don’t like to use their words.”  
  
Because Lothar was facing Ixche and Ikaroa was behind Lothar, Ixche clearly saw him pick up a large rodent and fling it at the back of Lothar’s head.  
  
Lothar just laughed. “Thank you for proving my point, Ikaroa,” he said, turning around. “Most helpful of you.”  
  
The next rodent caught him right in the face.  
  
Ixche couldn’t help the laugh that burst out of him at their antics, or the way some part of him that had been tense since he’d suggested this venture relaxed.  
  
As a chick in Talona’s flock, he’d always heard that dragons were savage, primitive beasts, of low intelligence and no morals. As a fledgling in Mother’s flock, he’d been hidden away and only heard of dragons from the harpies who fought them, and that early-learned impression had lingered in the back of his mind even as logic and evidence pointed out how wrong it was.  
  
Watching Ikaroa throw rodents at Lothar with the exact air of irritation his aunts exhibited when they grated a bit too much on each other’s nerves, he found himself finally letting go of it. Dragons were different in many ways, but where it counted, they were surprisingly like harpies.  
  
“If you’re done throwing Des’s breakfast at me,” Lothar said after about the fifth rodent to hit him, “Ixche and I have places to be, and we could both do with some breakfast of our own.”  
  
Ikaroa regarded him through four narrowed eyes, then snorted and grabbed a basket, throwing that at Lothar as well. Lothar caught it deftly, dumping his furry burden inside.  
  
“Pest,” Ikaroa said, then shouldered the last of the baskets and set off.  
  
“See what I mean?” Lothar asked, settling the basket and walking back the way they’d come. “Mirrors don’t put much stock in words, so they try not to use them, which makes them very bad at words when they have no other choice.”  
  
“Mirrors are...”  
  
“That’s what Ikaroa’s breed is called. I and dragons like me are Nocturnes, I believe I mentioned that yesterday. Agogwe and Peregrine are Guardians. Des is a Wildclaw. The ladies who accompanied Peregrine to aid your flock are Skydancers. The white one with red eyes and all the birdskulls is my mate, Xaviera.”  
  
“The one Ikaroa trusts.”  
  
“Yes, well remembered! Ikaroa is Xaviera’s father. He’s quite proud of her. Ah, look- see the fluffy black dragon with the cyan runes? That’s Ahcarat, they’re a Tundra.”  
  
Lothar continued to point out dragons as they walked, naming them and their breeds, telling Ixche a bit about what they contributed to the ‘clan’, which was what dragons called their flocks.  
  
“And this,” Lothar said as they entered a small building with white smoke drifting from its chimney and low tables scattered in front of it, “is Rawn, without whom we’d all surely starve.”  
  
Rawn was a small dragon almost as covered in feathers as Ixche, with glittering dark blue gems pinned to their creamy wings and an apron over their chest, presiding over a bustling commotion of dragons and food. They laughed, shaking their head.  
  
“Flattery doesn’t get you extras,” they said with an amused-sounding whistle, taking the basket from Lothar and setting it down, producing two bowls and handing one to Lothar, pressing the other on Ixche. “Eat while I prep Des’s meal. It’s a new recipe.”  
  
Lothar exclaimed excitedly and immediately fell to eating. Not wanting to upset Rawn, Ixche did the same. He wouldn’t say it was the _most_ delicious thing he’d ever eaten, but it was certainly a strong contender for the title.  
  
“You like it?” Rawn asked brightly. “It’s fried grouse fillet in honeycrisp wine sauce. I’m never sure about my meat dishes, but none of you heathens eat proper food.”  
  
“Perfect as always, Rawn,” Lothar said. “Certainly a dish I’d like to eat again.”  
  
“Flatterer,” Rawn accused again, laughing. “Take this and get out of my kitchen.”  
  
‘This’ was another basket, this one covered and smelling strongly of seared meat. Lothar took it with a bow, backing out into the street again.  
  
It wasn’t much more of a walk to the cave where he’d first met Lothar. Des was once more - or still - there, and he greeted the basket of food eagerly, taking it to one of the tables and setting it down.  
  
Lothar caught Ixche’s attention and motioned toward the other side of the massive cavern, directing him to one of the smaller cots.  
  
“Now that our errands have been run, I’ll tell you those proposals. If that’s alright with you?”  
  
Ixche nodded, absently wrapping his wings around himself.  
  
“Firstly, Balsamic, our clan architect, has offered her services to whip those little caves into shape for you. I assume you’ll at least want another entrance, so you aren’t tripping over antlers every time you feel like going out.”  
  
Ixche stared at him, feeling a sudden stab of shame for his thoughts the night before. “You mean...”  
  
“You’re not a hostage anymore, Ixche,” Lothar reminded him gently, almost like a mother soothing a chick. “You’re a guest now. We want you comfortable and happy here.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Don’t feel bad, it was a fair assumption to make after only a day in our company. No harm done and no hard feelings. That’s the first proposal: would you like Balsamic’s help fixing the place up?”  
  
Ixche nodded immediately. He very much wanted that.  
  
“Excellent. I’ll let her know as soon as I can. As for the second proposal: there’s a lady who… well, it would be misleading to say she _wants_ to meet you, but she feels - and I agree - that it would do her good. You are allowed to say no, and neither she nor I will judge you for it. Would you be willing to meet her?”  
  
Ixche thought for a moment, biting his lip. “How… how big is she?”  
  
“Larger than me but smaller than Des,” Lothar said. “Des and I will be here, and I promise you’ll come to no harm, but I understand if you’re reluctant.”  
  
Ixche sat on the cot, drawing his legs up under him, and bit his lip harder. A large part of him wanted to say no. It felt safer that way, but also selfish, so another part thought he really had to say yes. He closed his eyes for a moment, pinning down which part sounded more like Mother. Once he did, he opened his eyes again and listened to that one.  
  
“Yes. If it will help her, then I will.”  
  
Lothar nodded with a glint in his lilac eyes that seemed to see through everything. “I thought you might, but it’s always best to ask first. I’ll go fetch her; you stay here.”  
  
Ixche nodded, watching Lothar hurry off.  
  
He was fully prepared to not move from that cot, except a loud clatter and an annoyed grunt from the other side of the cavern called his attention to Des.  
  
Des’s basket had fallen to the ground and rolled under the table. Ixche watched Des shift slightly and fall well short of reaching twice before it finally occurred to him that most of Des’s body was stone, and stone did not bend. Des couldn’t simply duck under the table and retrieve his basket. Ixche hopped to his feet and hurried over, because Mother had raised him to help when he saw a need.  
  
“Here,” he said. “Let me.”  
  
He fit easily under the table and was able to snag the basket immediately, handing it to Des. Des took it and set it back on top of the table, then made a gesture with one of his foreclaws.  
  
Ixche frowned a moment, trying to puzzle out what it meant. “You are welcome?” he said uncertainly, smiling when Des nodded and made the gesture again. “You’re welcome. Do- if I may pry, do you not have a helper?”  
  
Des cocked his head slightly, then reached for one of the scraps of parchment scattered across the tabletop and a quill pen, scratching down a message.  
  
**can you read draconic**  
  
Ixche nodded. “Yes, a little. I speak it much better, but I can read it as well.”  
  
**peregrine is my helper** Des wrote. **sometimes her familiar koko**  
  
“Do you not have a fa-mil-liar?” Ixche asked curiously.  
  
Des shook his head slowly. **i need some one to help me rather than something** he wrote. He seemed about to write more, but noise from the entrance interrupted him.  
  
“I’m glad to see you two getting along so well,” Lothar commented brightly as he stepped inside.  
  
Another dragon followed him, a… Skydancer, Lothar had called her breed. Her body was a rich brown and her wings a vibrant green, and she was wrapped and cloaked in green as though she had meant to spend the day in a forest rather than in the Wastes. Her eyes were also green, bright and piercing above the mask covering much of her face. There was a look in their depths that Ixche had come to know well in the past season: the look of a grieving mother. It took little effort to guess what had become of her children once her eyes landed on him and went cold.  
  
“Ixche,” Lothar said, inserting himself slightly between the Skylady and Ixche himself. “This is Horehound. I promise, she’s not as angry as she looks.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every beginning has to be rooted in an ending. Sometimes, it's simply rooted in change.

“He’s small,” Horehound blurted out before she could stop herself, then had to fight the urge to turn and run before she could embarrass herself further.

Luckily, her pride wouldn’t allow her to turn tail just because some tiny little harpy barely the size of her wing might think she was an idiot. She stood her ground against her own social clumsiness instead, prepared to be laughed at.

The little harpy didn’t laugh, though. He bobbed his head once, in a way that reminded her a great deal of a nervous Skydancer. “Yes, great lady,” was all he said.

“Horehound,” she corrected, trying not to snap too much and failing. “I’m no lady.”

“My apologies, Horehound,” he replied, holding his wings in a little closer and again saying nothing further.

Horehound cleared her throat uncomfortably, not sure what else she herself could say.

Lothar stayed quietly off to the side, just shy of between them, a presence but not an obstacle. Part of her wanted him to intervene and help smooth the awkwardness, but most of her knew she’d only wind up resenting it if he did. She did things best on her own even when she screwed them up, and they both knew it. She could do this. She wasn’t scared of a single stupid harpy.

If harpy body language was anything like a Skydancer’s, though, that single stupid harpy was very much scared of her. Small wonder, really; she was all but twice his size and didn’t like him. She could kill him easily. He was small and defenseless and there was just enough of a Skydancer in him, just enough that was familiar and helpless that she would never. She  _ could _ never.

Curse Lothar for being so good at his job, the sneaky little Noct. She was going to have  _ words _ with him once they were alone. How dare he throw this... this  _ fledgling _ at her and destroy all her anger and indignation? How dare he subject the little thing to an angry dragon  _ twice his size _ just to soothe her unease?

She hated that he’d done this to them, and hated even more that it really was helping her. This was no bloodthirsty harpy swarm, this was a lonely frightened _child_ , and the deaths of her own children hadn’t meant she stopped being a mother.

She didn’t know how long she stood there inwardly seething before the harpy shuffled back a step, obviously distressed enough to snap her out of it. “Have I done something wrong?” he asked quietly.

“No,” Lothar spoke up at last, laying a claw on Horehound’s arm. “She’s just had a breakthrough is all, and she needs time to process it. We should cut this meeting short. Thank you, Ixche- you’ve been a great help.”

Horehound let Lothar crowd her carefully back to the entrance and outside once more, waiting until they were out of sight and earshot of the infirmary before turning to him and informing him, as calmly as she could manage, “I will have your head for this.”

“He consented,” Lothar reminded her, smiling. “This is quite a breakthrough for you.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m sure you do. Stop at the kitchens and get yourself some tea - a soothing blend - then go straight home and give yourself a chance to adjust. You’ll hate me less once your mind settles.”

“I hate you so much,” she repeated, glaring, but she did as she was told. Some tea and some time alone with her golem was the best medicine for such acute mental unrest, even if the fact that she only knew that because Lothar had taught her made her just a little bit madder at him.

* * *

Des watched Lothar hustle Horehound out of the infirmary with well-hidden relief. Lothar was for the most part very good at his self-made profession, but he was far from perfect, and he’d failed to inform Des of what he had in mind. He would not have enjoyed having to put himself in Horehound’s way if Lothar had misjudged her.

Still, no one had resorted to violence, so Des decided he would only make Lothar squirm a little before he forgave him. Even if Ixche had agreed, that had been cruel.

Des shifted forward, placing a hand lightly on Ixche’s shoulder, mindful of the weight of it.

“I am fine,” Ixche assured him, sounding very far from fine. He twisted slightly out from under his hand, but in a way that spoke more of restlessness than of discomfort, so Des stayed where he was while the harpy began to pace.

Des knocked his knuckles lightly against the table’s edge and picked up his forgotten quill again.

**he should not have done that to you. im sorry**

“I allowed it,” Ixche pointed out, leaving off his pacing in favor of hopping up to the edge of the table and perching there.

**that doesnt make it right**

“At least in that I am useful.”

Des had to force his tail not to lash in reaction to the distress in Ixche’s voice; that way lay a great deal of back pain. Instead he moved closer and tilted his head in a way he hoped would convey interest and sympathy.

It appeared to do what he’d intended, because Ixche sighed and spoke again. “When first we encountered stone-feather, I was small and could do nothing. Now it comes again, and though I am grown, still I can do nothing.”

Des tapped one stone claw against the table and shook his head, reaching once more for his parchment and quill.

**coming here was not nothing** he wrote.  **it was very brave and did a great deal of good**

Ixche sighed, shaking his head. “It feels like nothing.”

**it’s still something** Des insisted, underlining the message for emphasis.

Ixche sighed again, but didn’t try to argue further, so Des chose to consider it a win and let the subject drop.

**would you like to learn** Des asked after a moment of silence.

“Learn?”

**healing** he elaborated.  **i could teach you**

“You could? Truly?” Ixche asked, eyes wide. Des nodded, and Ixche all but fell off the table. “I have long wished- but we had no one to teach me, I- I would be honored to learn!”

Des couldn’t help but laugh at Ixche’s sudden innocent excitement.  **i will take that as a yes**

“Yes! Please, yes, I would be honored! We-” his enthusiasm dimmed a little, dampened by sorrow. “We have never had healers. Talona guards hers too closely for Mother to spirit any away when she broke from the flock.”

Des confined his response to a single question mark.

“Some of the very oldest healers are female, but most are male,” Ixche explained. “Females are needed as warriors, so males do much of what is not tied to battle. Mother said Talona allowed only the wounded near her males, and they were guarded by those Talona trusted most the whole time. I think that Mother was only willing to break from Talona because I had already hatched. She knew she would at least have one male to build a new flock with.”

There were shades of darker implications there that Des didn’t feel qualified to touch. That was best left to Lothar. Or they could wait for Peregrine to learn of them and let her end the war with the harpies entirely on her own. For all her gruffness, his Guardian had  _ opinions _ about that sort of thing.

**we have time before lunch** he wrote instead.  **shall we start your lessons now**

* * *

The harpy who arrived that evening was a different one, with long pale hair and a dark dull blue warrior’s mask rather than a messenger’s. Her name was Schehn (Lothar confessed to being lost on the meaning, aside from something to do with stars), and she assured them through Ixche that she had volunteered to carry this message because all the messengers were exhausted, not that they’d taken sick.

The message stated that stone-feather’s progress had been halted completely, and that most of the hatchlings and fledglings had been cleared by Peregrine and Taliesin to join Ixche. As many of them were too young to fly, the trip that a grown harpy could make in half a day would take them and their protectors four days in total, and Schehn would stay to help prepare for them unless the dragons had a message for her to carry back.

Lothar knew very well that some dragons would have preferred she be sent back regardless, but Horehound’s somewhat excessive reaction to the suggestion meant it was dropped. Her slightly misplaced anger had its uses, even if she did keep threatening to take his head.

The next three days were spent mainly on the caves. Balsamic led the residents of the Maze in expanding and shaping the side passage and caverns for harpy use, hollowing out a communal cavern and a nesting cavern under Ixche’s diffident direction and Schehn’s more forceful support. Those dragons who worked in textiles set to crafting blankets, cushions, curtains, and wall hangings to brighten the dark caves and make them more comfortable. Lanie magnanimously donated many of her older toys to the cause, and Taiyo recruited Magsys’s overly enthusiastic help to dig a well and outfit it for harpy use.

Many members of the clan still felt harpies couldn’t be trusted, but that had no bearing on the enthusiasm with which they threw themselves into the project. Lothar chose to take that as a good sign.

* * *

The fourth day dawned blustery and clouded. While the welcoming committee was confined to Agogwe, Ikaroa, Lothar, and Ixche, the buildings and caves within eye- and ear-shot were all crowded with curious onlookers.

The harpies themselves didn’t arrive until midafternoon, and the group was smaller than some had been expecting. There were maybe a dozen tiny harpies with baby down still in their wings, four or five who were old enough to have lost the baby down but not old enough to be fully fledged, three warriors, and two messengers. That was all.

Ixche abandoned any pretense of decorum as soon as the group came close enough to hear, dashing across the intervening space and dropping to his knees in the dirt and opening his wings. The hatchlings and fledgelings swarmed him, shouting excitedly, and Lothar wouldn’t deny the way his heart spasmed at the sight of tiny stone feathers and rough stone patches on little legs.

One of the grown harpies wore no mask: stone-feather had given her a permanent one in its place. She had painted it to mimic a warrior’s mask, and her visible skin showed battle scars beneath the stone. She stepped around the knot of babbling children engulfing Ixche and walked to a comfortable conversational distance of Agogwe.

“I am Warrior Nehzhe,” she said in slow draconic, much more heavily accented than Ixche’s. “Matron Shatza sends you greetings and thanks.”

Agogwe nodded once in acknowledgement. “Be welcome, Warrior Nehzhe,” she said.

Nehzhe swept her wings back and bowed, then straightened and turned to Lothar. “Priestess Xaviera sends greetings to Healer-of-minds Lothar. She will return in two days’ time.”

“Thank you, Warrior Nehzhe,” Lothar replied in her own tongue and carefully didn’t smile at her slight startled reaction. “If Ixche can be freed from the hatchlings, we will see you to your eyrie. Your day has been long.”

She nodded and turned, calling to the children. With Ixche’s urging, they approached, but in a slow almost fearful cluster.

A sharp click and a hiss of “ _Xanthos, no!_ ” was all the warning they received before a tiny cream-colored arrow shot between Agogwe and Ikaroa, backwinging into a tiny glittering Fae right in front of the foremost of the harpy hatchlings. Their startled reaction devolved quickly into excitement, because Xanthos was too small to be truly frightening and was obviously made entirely of stone himself, from his fluttering fins to the twitching tip of his tail.

By the time they managed to herd the group to the Stone and their temporary home, every single hatchling and fledgling had gotten to touch and examine Xanthos, and only the oldest of them still had any wariness left for dragons in them.

As for the dragons? Any dragon who could see these children, too young to fly or to truly fear, and still hold animosity for them would not have been welcome in Agogwe’s clan to begin with. However long this arrangement lasted, Lothar was confident that the wider consequences would be more than worth the immediate good.


End file.
